


Of golden silk and Mexican snow.

by arkasha1983



Category: Gone With the Wind - All Media Types, Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
Genre: American Civil War, Bedside Hand-Holding, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Romance, War, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkasha1983/pseuds/arkasha1983
Summary: "Ashley rolls in the snow, and the snow turns red. His hands follow the depth of his ache, somewhere in his gut. On his back, he tries to look at the wound, but the effort is too much; the muscles of his neck give in, and as a groan escapes his lips, his head swiftly falls back on the soft white mantle."Ashley Wilkes dies in the snow of Virginia. Or does he.[With a twist]





	Of golden silk and Mexican snow.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in one year and a half so this was mostly a warm-up! And it probably sucks.  
> Also my characters have no sense of morals ;-)  
> As usual, any kind of feedback is appreciated!

Ashley rolls in the snow, and the snow turns red. His hands follow the depth of his ache, somewhere in his gut. On his back, he tries to look at the wound, but the effort is too much; the muscles of his neck give in, and as a groan escapes his lips, his head swiftly falls back on the soft white mantle.

He can barely hear the shouts, the shots that his men fire around and behind him. The thunder rumble ringing in his ears – is it the pain, or just the war? This war that he never wanted. That he never believed in. This war -- nothing but a broken promise.

Blood is warm under the dirt of his fingertips, and he presses down tighter, more for comfort than for the illusion to keep himself alive as long as possible. He sees no use for that, not anymore; the Confederates never really had a chance and Georgia seems farther than ever, farther every day. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then he can almost see it; the white columns of his family mansion in Twelve Oaks, the imperial staircase, the view from the stone balcony, the rose garden, a carriage waiting outside the gates. The slow walks under leaves set ablaze by the shimmering breeze of one summer sunset, and the rims of light dresses brushing the grass, some shyly, some coyly, frills like waterfalls of grace.

And then the devoted and melancholic smile of his Melanie as he draws away from her embrace, saying goodbye one last time; and his last goodbye -- Scarlett.

Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett.

He sighs, battling a cold sun to open his eyes again, sight still blurred by more blood, and more dirt and maybe something else; Scarlett, scarlet as this shaking hand he finally raises above his head to shield himself from the unbearable light.

He thought about her every day; there are days when he thinks, when he is _sure_ that he even went to war for her – to honor her courage and strength, her spirit and her exuberance; to feel even slightly worth of her stubborn vivaciousness, of her passion, unbreakable. To escape her, yet the inevitable traction that he feels for her seems to tug at him harder and stronger with every step of the way.

Such are the miserable thoughts that keep company to an inept gentleman of the South on his death-bed, Ashley thinks to himself. Such are the despicable actions. He almost scoffs, and something thick and ferrous gets caught up in his throat.

He has seen Scarlett every morning since he left Georgia on Christmas, every afternoon marching through South Carolina, every night in his quiet and mumbling North Carolina nightmares, and now in Virginia, here she is again. Scarlett wide-eyed; her face desperate, frantic trying to read his; and how it pained him not to answer her at all. Her arms around his neck, her lips on his. His hands around her wrists, restraining himself more than anyone else. Her arms around his waist, lingering perhaps a split fraction of a second, tying the knot of a golden silk sash.

The arm falls limp at his side, a soft thud in the snow. A shivering runs through Ashley’s spine, and he realizes bitterly how he feels much colder now – away from her, from the touch of her, from her radiant smile and her burning cheeks, from the gaze that he never learned how to hold with his.

He bites his lip, guilt becoming one with the lethal torment of his body; yet here on this lonely and glacial death-bed, his love for her comes to his mind, to his heart, to every fiber of his body, as undeniable and unavoidable as the approaching end. He cries out, as if to get rid of it all; he cries and cries and cries, but hears no sound coming out of his mouth. He swallows in defeat.

Ashley wonders how long it will take for more snow to fall and cover up the blood, the mud, the gunpowder, and his own cowardice, despite and above everything else; he feels somewhat impatient and irritated, restless. The hand resting heavy on his torn uniform is now damp; the other, numbed by snow, searches for something at his side – not the sable nor the bayonet, he won’t need them now. He finds the silk of Scarlett’s stash, and holds on it for dear life.

“Scarlett, dear… Forgive me.”

Forlorn, Ashley is sure to be parting and joining his lips in longing, desire, affection, regret – nothing but a prayer that freezes on his mouth. His eyelids close again, and now the light is weaker, almost merciful.

“Don’t cry, dear. Come to me.”

He sees her once more, cups her face with two hands – and his heart trembles to discover them strong again and tender for her, now more than ever; she seems to notice, a wild hopeful joy flashing for a moment in the sadness of her eyes, as they finally shine of something that’s not tears. Then a cruel wind blows through the trees of the surrounding clearing, and Ashley’s whole body gives out to one last shudder.

Scarlett’s own sobs wake her up.

“Ashley, Ashley, no!”

Ashley rushes from the adjoining room, the floorboards of the old ranch’s bedroom creaking under the weight of his concern. He crouches at the side of the bed, setting the lamplight on the night table.

“What is it, dear?” Ashley asks hurriedly. Scarlett’s face is a pale and beautiful full moon looking at him from the pillow, suspended in the orange light of that corner of the house. A moon that is streaked with tears, but no less striking. She stretches out a hand, and he wraps it readily in his.

“I had a terrible dream, Ashley.”

But her own words come to her as comfort, and she can feel her brow relaxing at the sight of his; yet in that light, Scarlett searches Ashley’s face as she did in her dreams, as she did months ago; this time as to be certain that the nightmare is over. He is really there, worried and older – but whole. His Ashley, his skin a touch darker from working all day under the Mexican sun; his hair a touch less brighter, a lock of curls sticking to his brow on this torrid, damp night. She sighs, a weak smile peaking at the edge of her mouth.

“I keep having these dreams… you’re in Virginia, Ashley, and there’s the snow and…”

“Oh, my dear love.” He interrupts her, freeing one hand to stroke her forehead. He follows the frame of her face, slowly wiping away the little pearls of sweat. “The war is over,” and his thumb strokes her cheekbone, where tears have left their salty mark, “And there’s no snow in Mexico.”

Scarlett closes her eyes, Ashley’s touch melting away her anxiousness, and all past fears; for now, yet for another night. “Stay with me, Ashley. Don’t leave yet.”

Ashley rises to his feet, his heart skipping a beat; it still happens from time to time, after all these years. He leans down for a moment, to kiss her forehead. Then he turns the wick down into the burner and waits for the flame to out before laying down next to her.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably re-write / amplify the ending because right now it feels a little rushed.  
> I haven't read the book yet so I apologize if anything (or everything) seems a little off.


End file.
